breaking habits is hard to do
by chenrydanger
Summary: Charlotte has a problem. She’s got herself a bit of an addiction.


Charlotte Page-Bolton has never been a stranger to bad habits.

She cracks her knuckles way too much. _It's compulsive, Charlotte,_ her mother always says in her singsongy warning tone. Ms. Page never lets her daughter hear the end of it. Charlotte usually just responds with a shrug.

The popping sound her joints make is satisfying, and the sensation gives her a distraction when she's stressed. She also has a terrible habit of bouncing her leg when she's nervous. A lot. And she could stand to drink less coffee — not to mention her obsessive, constant use of chapstick. It's a bit of a problem.

It's not that Charlotte doesn't want to break these habits. She does. But she's a busy person. Between the piles of homework she's assigned every day, her after-school tutoring business, and being student council president, she has too much on her plate to preoccupy herself with something as trivial as worrying over the little ways she tries to relieve her stress.

But _anything_ _can_ _become_ _an_ _addiction_, her mother always tells her. Charlotte rolls her eyes every time she hears it. She knows she's not actually addicted to bouncing her leg or applying chapstick. She's not even addicted to coffee. Truthfully, she has her bad habits mostly under control. There is one thing, though, that's starting to make her worry. One of her bad habits is beginning to look like it might prove her mother right.

Charlotte is addicted to ordering pizza.

It can't be just any pizza. It has to be from Swellview City Pizza. She has to order it at 6:00pm on Friday night, and every time she calls she orders herself a small pie with pepperoni on top.

She used to get a large and save the leftovers in the fridge for her and her mother to share. But then Ms. Page scolded that she was ordering food too often.

"Swellview City isn't even any good," her mom told her once her over the phone. "It's not worth the calories. I'll make you a healthy, balanced dinner when I get off from work."

"That's too late, Mom. I'll be asleep. I'll figure something out myself, okay?" And before her mother could protest any further, "_Talktoyoulaterbyeee_."

She started getting small pies and secretly keeping the leftovers in her mini-fridge instead.

The thing is, Charlotte knows her mom kind of sort of has a point. She does this covert dance every week without fail. It's getting bad, for both her wallet and her taste palette. But still she stares at the living room clock every Friday night as it nears 6:35pm, give or take a few minutes, and every time a tangible rush of euphoria hits when the doorbell rings.

God, maybe she is addicted.

"Hello?" She says as she opens the door, mentally berating herself not even a second later for sounding too eager.

On the other side of the doorstep, a blond-haired boy glances up from the pizza box he holds in his hand and his lips crack open to reveal a charming display of his pearly whites. His eyes are big and brown and locked onto hers like a magnet. Charlotte's heart jumps.

This is it. It's him. This boy standing here before her — the cutest delivery boy on planet earth, probably — he is the reason that calm, collected, methodical Charlotte Page-Bolton has become addicted to ordering barely edible pepperoni pizza. On the regular.

"Small pepperoni pizza, for…" he checks the receipt. "Charlotte?"

"That's me." She's somehow breathless as she replies. (Maybe, with all of the pizza she's been putting back, she needs to start hitting the gym a little more often. Or maybe…)

The boy extends the box to her and she extends the money to him, and after they make the same wordless exchange they've made several times before, there's a brief moment of silence that lasts just long enough that it does not pass by unnoticed. And then he says:

"You really like pepperoni pizza, huh?"

There it is. Her seventh week in a row ordering this godawful mess of chewy, rubbery dough and sort-of-sweet tomato sauce and weird, goopy cheese that is only, like, half-salvaged by the pepperoni they sparingly place on top, and there it is, finally. Her opening.

"Yeah," she says. Then she backtracks. "Well, no. I don't know. I kind of like it, I guess. It's alright. It's not the best pizza I've ever had, but…"

She can tell her rambling word vomit is starting to confuse him. His smile has dropped, and now he's curiously waiting for her to say whatever it is she's trying to get out. It's like she's watching as her precious opening gets smaller and smaller. She wants to crack her knuckles, but she has a box of pizza in her hands.

"Do… you like pepperoni pizza?"

His eyebrows fly up at this, just a little. And then his lips quirk and that smirk of his is back. "I do."

She exhales and the tension melts from her shoulders. "Oh. Nice."

He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on the soles of his vans. "It's my favorite, actually. Pepperoni." He presses his lips together in an awkward smile. It somehow makes him even cuter.

Now her wheels are turning. Is she crazy, or is he thinking the same thing as she is? "Well, I can't finish all of it myself, so, if you want…?"

His blinks for a few moments before his lips part in surprise. "Oh, actually, I still have to—" She follows where his thumb is pointing with her eyes and she can see the headlights of a car glaring through the bushes at the top of her driveway.

"Oh, yeah, of course." She lets a stream of air trill past her lips. "Duh. My bad. You should get back to work then, uh…"

He hesitates for a moment before realizing what she's waiting for. "Oh. I'm Henry."

A woozy smile creeps its way onto her face. If heart eyes were real, she'd be beyond screwed. "Henry. I'll see you next week."

"See you next week." He nods, and lingers there for just long enough that it does not pass by unnoticed. "Charlotte."

It's a habit she's not going to break any time soon.


End file.
